


The Perfect Man

by skoosiepants



Category: Bandom, Brand New, Cobra Starship, Fall Out Boy, Hush Sound, My Chemical Romance, Panic At The Disco, The Academy Is..., The Cab
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-26
Updated: 2008-12-26
Packaged: 2017-10-17 18:59:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/180166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skoosiepants/pseuds/skoosiepants
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Joe refuses to be charmed. Joe’s neighbor is some sort of drunkard or druggie, okay, and he smells like wood varnish and burnt hair and Joe really, really hopes he doesn’t have an explosive meth lab set up in his garage.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Perfect Man

**Author's Note:**

> Finally! The Joe fic is done!! Okay, okay, so notes: loosely based on the book Mr. Perfect, by Linda Howard. As usual, massive thanks go to insunshine – who is such a darling - for the awesome beta. Basically, this is for nunshavingfun, because her love of Joe/Bob rivals mine. And for the record, Joe is one tough mofo to write. I have a feeling I’m wildly off base with him here, but I had fun anyway. Title is extremely lame, even for me. Sorry.
> 
> ([download the soundtrack](http://community.livejournal.com/muse_to_match/10424.html))

There comes a time, Joe thinks morosely, staring at himself in the mirror above his sink, when you just have to grow the fuck up. He scrubs a hand over his shorn curls and grimaces. He refuses to fucking shave, though, Lacey can kiss his ass.

There’re shadows under his eyes and he yawns, wide, before twisting on the cold water and splashing his face. It’s early, dawn gray and wan, and Joe’s been awake since roughly four in the morning.

Hemmy snuffles at Joe’s bare toes and makes a grunting noise.

“Yeah, okay, buddy,” Joe says. “Give me a minute and I’ll let you out.”

Hemmy ambles out of the bathroom at a typical bulldog pace and Joe grins after him. Pete might be a douche for forcing the dog on him at the last minute just before he jetted off to god-knows-where, but it’s kind of nice having Hemmy around the house; Joe’s never lived by himself before. It’s another sign of fully-fledged adulthood – owning a home, with a mortgage, escrow and all. He’s being hammered by taxes, but he’s got a patch of grass out back that he actually looks forward to mowing.

Joe eventually snaps off the bathroom light with a huff of irritation – he misses his Jew-fro, it’s kind of tragic – and heads for the kitchen, finding Hemmy patiently sitting on his haunches by the back door.

As he lets the dog out, Joe glances over at the new neighbor’s house, glaring at the porch light that’s still on, the one that shines directly into Joe’s bedroom. _Then_ he slides his glare over towards the piece of shit car that’d come rattling into the driveway at four-fucking-am – the reason Joe had a) been jerked from an awesome sleep, and b) kept awake, grit-eyed, until his alarm buzzed at six-thirty. His neighbor’s a fucking asshole. And probably some kind of drug dealer – Joe’s spotted him exactly once during daylight hours; scruffy, wearing torn and stained clothes, bear of a scowl on his mouth. Joe’s a friendly dude, but he’d swallowed back a greeting when he was faced with whatever bug had crawled up that guy’s ass and died. For all Joe knows, he could be a strung-out coke addict that’s just seconds from a psychotic break with a sharp, pointy knife.

Joe isn’t straight edge or anything, but his lazily lingering college pot habit totally isn’t the same thing as being a crack whore.

It takes Joe a half hour to get Hemmy settled and get out of the house, juggling his work bag, a travel mug of coffee and his keys, an apple clenched between his teeth. He drops his keys twice before getting the car door open, accidentally elbows his horn getting everything into the passenger seat, and gets drool from his open-around-an-apple mouth all down his chin. He knows this day is going to be _fantastic_.

This is emphasized by the fact that he backs the car right up into his neighbor’s trashcan. Awesome.

*

Butcher shoves a stack of papers at him and arches an eyebrow. “Nice hair.”

“Fuck off,” Joe says, stalking past reception.

Butcher calls down the hallway after him, “Andy wants to see you!” and Joe flips him off without turning around.

Joe likes Butcher, but Joe is running really fucking late, after he tried – and failed – to kick out the enormous dent he’d put in his neighbor’s trashcan.

Brendon peeks over the top of his cubicle half-wall – someday he’s going to demand an office and an actual dressing room that he doesn’t have to share with Brendon - as Joe drops his bag and thumbs on his monitor.

“What have you _done_ , Joe Trohman?” Brendon asks, eyes wide.

“I look polished and sophisticated,” Joe says.

“You look like a tool,” Jon says, leaning a hip onto Joe’s desk. He takes a sip of his coffee and grins around the mug lip.

Joe screws the lid off his thermos and takes a fortifying gulp, manfully ignoring the burning pain – his travel mug kicks ass, apparently, at keeping his coffee piping hot. “I’m a professional,” Joe says. He’s a fucking professional, and Andy’s going to laugh his damn head off, but if it’ll shut Lacey the fuck up, Joe’ll clench his teeth and bear it.

He’s not actually under the delusion that it’ll shut Lacey up, though, because Lacey is an asshole network patsy and Joe suspects he just wants to get Joe fired already, even though Joe’s the fucking _talent_ here.

“Greta’s going to kill you,” Jon says, and Brendon nods his head a lot in agreement.

“Kill you _dead_ ,” Brendon says.

Joe concedes that Greta might kill him. He tugs on the ends of his now-short curls and grimaces. He hadn’t really been thinking about Greta when he’d told the girl at the Hair Cuttery to, “Shred the fuck out of this motherfucker.” He says, “Maybe I should wear a hat.”

*

Greta does not actually kill Joe, but it’s a close thing. He’s curled into his seat at the end of the oval table, head ducked to his notes, and he’s studiously ignoring the way Greta is sniffling and making wounded faces at him and trying to talk Brendon into an even brighter shirt than usual to take some of the emphasis away from the fact that Joe has, “Ruined the entire aesthetic of the show, oh my _god_ , Trohman, how _could_ you?”

Lacey has an evilly smug smile on his face as he stands off to the side of the stage, mug of coffee between both hands, hunched over like he’s about to break out in a mad cackle. Joe does some rash things. Joe should’ve remembered that Lacey is a douchebag asshole bent on making Joe look like a total fool before, say, chopping off all his signature hair.

Joe sighs.

Ballato, their normal replacement for whenever Pete flakes out on them and disappears, drops into the chair next to him and props her chin on one palm, fingers tapping her cheek. She arches an eyebrow.

Joe says, “I know.”

She smirks. “It sort of suits you.” She reaches out and rubs at his jaw. “At least you still have your scruff.”

Ashlee bounces up on the stage and says, “Guys, guys, I saw the most _amazing_ band last night. The _keytar_ , it’s totally coming back!”

“Was it ever here?” Andy says through a yawn, headset around his neck, leaning into the edge of the table tiredly. “Also,” he points at Joe, “ha.”

“Five minutes, guys,” Jon says. He knocks his knuckles into the tabletop. “Good show.”

Patrick hustles up with Ryan trailing after him, holding about twenty hats, switching them out one after the other and tossing them over his shoulder as each one is rejected in turn. Finally, Ryan settles on a black and white checkered newsboy cap, and Greta tucks Patrick’s bangs up under it as he drops into his seat between Ashlee and Brendon.

“Sorry, sorry,” Patrick huffs. He waves some papers around. “Fucking tone-deaf _Frog_ got signed to Reprise, what the fuck.”

“Twenty seconds,” Jon says, a disembodied voice. The lights are hot and bright, and Joe can’t see anything beyond the teleprompter. Johnson, standing beside it, counts them in from five, the three, two, one just silent ticks of his fingers.

“Welcome to _The Morning After_ ,” Ashlee says into the camera. “Today, an epic battle between Joe and Patrick over how cool the keytar is—”

“That’s not in my notes,” Patrick says. He shuffles his papers, brow creased in a way that’s probably giving Greta spasms.

“Ash, the keytar is not cool,” Joe says.

“Well, hang on,” Patrick says, tugging on the brim of his hat, still frowning, and Brendon makes tell-me-more hands, letting Joe relax into his seat, forgetting about his fucking hair, because he’s got the best damn job on the planet.

*

Every Friday, Joe somehow lets himself get talked into going out for lunch and drinks after the show with Ashlee, Brendon, Greta and occasionally Ballato. He never means to, and always has several awesome excuses lined up to get him out of it, but they’ve never, in the year and a half he’s been on _The Morning After_ , worked.

He doesn’t understand how Patrick always dodges this, but he’s mighty envious. Not that he doesn’t enjoy the tacos and beer, but the girls tend to forget that Joe is _mostly_ gay, but not _all_ gay, and _also_ not actually a woman. Unlike Brendon. Especially when Brendon gets started on Ryan’s best friend, Spencer, the guy he has an enormous crush on, even though they’ve hardly spoken two words to each other. It’s kind of sad.

“It’s kind of sad, dude,” Joe tells Brendon, taking a pull on his beer. It’s maybe his fifth one, but he totally has to fortify himself for these events.

“He’s _perfect_ ,” Brendon says with a sigh.

Ballato says, “Yeah, right,” nose wrinkled, but Ballato’s dating Gerard Way, who lives around the corner from Joe, and Gerard Way is one weird-ass dude, all basement-dweller pale and creepy hamster-teeth smiles, so anything she has to say about guys is immediately suspect.

Of course, Joe kind of agrees with her on this one. Spencer Smith is not perfect. He’s hot, yeah, but lately he’s been sporting an extremely unfortunate mustache. “Unless you’re rocking a beard, there should be no hair on your upper lip,” Joe says. Joe’s a fucking _sage_ , here.

“I _do_ miss the beard,” Brendon says, but then he spreads his hands and says, “But you’ve totally seen his arms, right? Right?” and he sighs even _more_ dreamily, and Joe downs the rest of his beer in one long swallow. He snags a passing waiter – he doesn’t even think he’s theirs – and orders another round. He’s going to need it.

Ashlee has her head on Greta’s shoulder, smile vague, hand curled loosely around her pint glass.

Greta pats Ashlee absently and says, “There are no perfect guys, Brendon. None. Not since Trohman here _cut all his hair off_.” She gives Joe a meaningful glare. Greta is not scary, except for how she totally actually is.

Joe sinks down low into his seat and tugs his glass closer.

“Oh, that’s a lie,” Brendon says. “I’m awesome.”

“Awesome, but not perfect,” Ashlee says with a giggle. “You’re, like, pocket-sized.”

“I’m a _respectable_ height,” Brendon says.

“Next to Patrick,” Ashlee says, and Brendon’s eyes go wide and he looks like he’s trying very hard not to laugh, because Brendon knows and they _all_ know that any laughter at Patrick’s expense is bound to get back to Pete and/or Patrick and that’s never pretty.

Greta narrows her eyes speculatively. That look never bodes well, Joe knows, but he’s too drunk to care at this point. What they need, he thinks, are more nachos.

“The perfect guy,” Greta says, fingers tapping slowly on the table, “has got to be tall.”

“Tall, dark and handsome,” Ballato says, rolling her eyes.

“And _solicitous_ ,” Brendon says, then adds so low that Joe almost misses it, “ _Spencer’s_ tall,” and Joe snorts a quick laugh.

“With dimples,” Ashlee says. “And, like, long fingers.” She wiggles hers in the air.

If Joe had stopped drinking a half hour ago, even, he probably wouldn’t have bobbed his head in agreement. Probably.

Ballato scrubs a hand over her mouth, like she’s trying to hide a smile. “And he’s got to be kind to animals,” she says.

“To kids,” Brendon puts in.

“He _cooks_ ,” Ashlee says, slamming a palm down next to her plate.

“Naked.” Greta’s mouth curls up in a way that Joe can only describe as wicked, which means he’s probably past drunk and well on his way to fucking _plastered_.

Joe waves over another waiter – they’re all blurring together at this point – and says, “Dude, a round of shots—”

“Grey Goose,” Ballato says. “Chilled.” And then she points at Joe and says, “A generously-sized dick.”

Joe doesn’t know why he’s been pinned down to second this one, but he shrugs. “Well, duh.”

“But not, like, freakishly proportioned,” Ashlee says, with a strangely serious line in between her brows, and Brendon bursts out into giggles and says, “Oh my god.”

*

On Saturday, Joe gives up trying to sleep in around five o’clock. He rolls out of bed with a groan, flips on his coffeemaker and lets Hemmy out into the yard. He contemplates carving out his neighbor’s heart with his sugar spoon. Or maybe just chucking a rock at his porch light; it’d be less violent and more expedient. Instead, he watches early morning cartoons ‘til nine, then decides he should maybe mow his lawn before it gets too hot out to move.

Joe’s pretty proud of his mowing prowess – he’s managed to keep his grass at a respectable length for going on four months. He’s got a monster of a mower, too, even though his yard isn’t all that huge, because he maybe got a little carried away in Home Depot that one time. Joe never suspected he had a thing for shiny machines until he’d nearly whited-out in the lawn care aisle.

iPod blaring some classic Led Zeppelin, he drags the mower out of his attached garage and starts it up. Hemmy watches him balefully from the side stoop, droopy head on his paws.

Joe’s only gone down the length of his yard twice when a giant hand clamps onto his shoulder and it’s very possible that Joe yelps like a little girl. Very, extremely possible, but he’s not going to admit it.

“Jesus _Christ_ ,” Joe says, tapping the mower off and hanging over the handle, panting. His heart feels like it’s about to burst out of his throat. It doesn’t help that Joe’s neighbor is standing awfully close, scowling down at him, because Joe’s neighbor is one scary-ass dude. Big and, okay, kind of totally hot, but _scary_. He could probably break Joe’s neck with one hand. The hand that’s still a painful vise on Joe’s shoulder.

“Um.” Joe snags the cord of his earbuds and tugs. “Yeah?”

“I’m trying to sleep,” the guy says.

In the distance, Joe can hear the buzz of many folks who had the same idea as Joe – get yard work done before the temp ratchets up past ninety. Joe cocks his head. “It’s not that early, dude,” he says.

The grip on his shoulder tightens even more, and Joe’s sure he’s going to have a bruise there later. Or a snapped bone. The guy doesn’t say anything, though, just narrows his eyes, glaring Joe down, and Joe’s trying to be amiable here, he really is, but what the fuck.

“Seriously, dude, if you’re gonna break my clavicle go ahead and do it already, fucking—” Joe almost calls him a manner-less heathen, but realizes at the last second that it’d totally make him sound like his gamma, and Joe is not that lame. Really.

The guy drops his hand, though, and actually looks taken-aback – which he _should_ – and says, “Sorry,” and, okay, is that a fucking blush? Joe is ninety-eight percent certain the guy is— _blushing_.

Joe refuses to be charmed. Joe’s neighbor is some sort of drunkard or druggie, okay, and he smells like wood varnish and burnt hair and Joe really, really hopes he doesn’t have an explosive meth lab set up in his garage.

Joe suddenly feels as awkward as the guy looks, watching as he ducks his head a little and rubs the back of his neck. And then he says, “Could you just not fucking mow your lawn right now?” and the entire effect is ruined.

Joe snorts and says, “Yeah, sure, since you yourself have been such a kind and considerate neighbor. Look, big guy, I’ll be done in, like, an hour and then you can pass out—”

“What?”

“Do you even know how a light switch _works_? You know, you flip it back down after you’re done stumbling home drunk so you _don’t_ keep the neighbors up all fucking night and, seriously, what the fuck is wrong with your shitty-ass car?” He thrusts a hand into his hair and misses his fro more than ever, tugging ineffectually at the short curls – it’s just not as satisfying at conveying his frustration. “It’s like a fucking _tank_ rolls up at four each morning, Christ. Some of us actually have to get up and _work_ every day.”

Joe, very briefly, ponders when exactly he’d turned into his dad.

The dude slides his hands into his pockets and he actually looks a little bemused now, if no less menacing. “Yeah, you’re on that morning show. Joe Trohman. I’m Bob.”

Joe blinks at him incredulously. Joe normally thinks of himself as a laidback guy. Joe normally doesn’t get angry. He gets vaguely annoyed and, okay, so maybe Lacey has been known to send him into a blind rage – which totally doesn’t count, since it’s _Lacey_ – but Joe feels like he’s dangerously close to punching _Bob_ in the face.

It’s not a good idea, really, since Bob’s face looks like it could probably punch back. And with a hell of a lot more force.

Joe eases away from his mower. “I’m just going to—do this later.” Twilight, maybe, when it cools off again.

Bob grins. It’s not a very nice grin. “Sounds good.”

*

Monday dawns and Joe’s surprised to find that he’s actually slept ‘til his alarm. He stretches out of bed, hitching his sweatpants higher on his hips, and pads into the kitchen, Hemmy at his heels.

He’s just filled a glass of water at the sink when he happens to glance up and—and Bob doesn’t have his blinds drawn. Bob doesn’t have his blinds drawn, and Bob is standing in his own kitchen, and Bob is very, very naked. Like, epically naked.

The polite thing to do, okay, would be to turn away. Joe is not that polite. Holy hell.

Joe’s throat dries up and he sips at his water, eyes locked on Bob and Bob’s—everything. Bob’s pale and blonde everywhere – and big and muscular and, god, half-hard – but Joe’s willing to bet he fits almost all the other criteria his bat-shit insane cohorts came up with the other night.

He leans into the counter, pressing his dick into the cabinets, and tries to talk himself out of jerking off right the fuck there, Christ. He is not a pervert. Totally not a pervert.

With a deep breath, he makes himself walk over to the phone and dials Gerard’s number – though he still can’t rip his eyes off of Bob, and the way Bob’s gripping his fridge door with one hand, downing a glass of juice in the other, _naked_ – because Gerard knows everybody in the neighborhood, despite being some sort of social hermit.

Gerard’s, “Hello,” is kind of groggy.

“Dude, you know Bob, right?” Joe manages. “My neighbor?”

“What the—Joe?”

“Gerard Way, man, help me out here. I need Bob’s number.”

Joe is going to call Bob and inform him of the fact that he’s flashing the whole world his dick, specifically Joe. Joe feels like this is the nice neighborly thing to do.

“Um.” There’s a noisy yawn. “Cop Bob? Yeah, okay, hang on—”

“Cop Bob?” Joe’s brain stutters a sec while Bob scratches at his stomach and then turns to give Joe an awesome view of his ass.

Gerard rattles off numbers and Joe has to ask him to repeat it twice before he hangs up, because _cop_ Bob? Naked cop Bob? Do cops normally look like hobos living out of their cars? Of course, Bob doesn’t look like a hobo crack whore at the moment. He looks like someone that Joe would very much like to climb. Or something. Joe is so fucked.

He blindly punches Bob’s digits into the phone and watches as Bob’s head jerks up, as he walks over to a phone mounted on his kitchen wall, and Joe swallows thickly at Bob’s gruff, “Yeah.”

“Yeah, so, you realize your blinds are open, right?” Joe says.

Bob looks up and pins Joe with a hard stare and Joe bites back an honest-to-god meep. “Sorry,” Bob says, even though he doesn’t _sound_ very sorry. He keeps eye contact with Joe as he stalks slowly over to his window, and Joe _could_ be imagining the tiny curve of his mouth, but he doesn’t think so.

Bob’s blinds slide down. He asks, “Better?”

Joe nods, even though he can’t see him anymore, and says, “Yeah, uh, thanks.”

“No problem,” Bob says, and hangs up.

Joe’s fingers curl around the phone, white-knuckled, and he thinks what he needs is a long, hot, soapy shower, and then he thinks _fucking fuck_ , because, Jesus Christ, he could have just shut his _own_ shades and avoided confronting Bob altogether.

Joe is officially an idiot.

*

There’s a piece of laminated paper taped to his monitor when Joe gets to work. At the top, it reads The Perfect Man, and Joe groans.

“Nice,” Jon says.

“What?”

“I especially like the part about cooking naked.” Jon flashes him a thumbs-up.

“Oh Jesus,” Joe says, pressing his palms into his eyes.

“Joe, Joe,” Brendon says, bounding up behind Jon, waving his own paper around in the air. “How fucking awesome is this?”

Joe doesn’t actually think it’s awesome, especially since, yep, all their names are listed at the bottom of the page. Joe is pretty sure this is Ashlee’s fault, because she’s always pulling this type of shit, like the three months she kept sending everyone e-cards from her dog.

Joe collapses into his chair. “I used to be a guy, you know,” Joe says dejectedly.

“And then you gave up weed for Lent,” Jon says.

“What was I thinking?” Joe buries his face in his hands. “I’m Jewish. I don’t even know what Lent is.”

“Bill wants to put it on the show,” Brendon says.

Joe jerks upright and shakes his head no, no, no, because, “Bill has lost his fucking mind. We’re a music roundtable, dude, what the fuck.”

Brendon shrugs. “I think it’ll be fun.”

“You think _ice dancing_ is fun,” Joe says. “You’re a fan of Vampire Weekend, you can’t be trusted, Brendon, you know this.”

“Hey.” Brendon frowns.

Jon curls an arm around Brendon’s shoulders and tells Joe, “No need to be mean, man.”

Which is a valid point, because this is not like Joe. Joe never has a need to be mean. Joe is argumentative about Death Metal maybe, but he’s never _mean_.

“Shit,” Joe says. He’s currently having a bad _life_.

“What’s going on?” Ryan asks, pausing on his way past with what looks like a box full of mittens and scarves.

“Joe’s in a mood.”

“I’m not in a mood.” Joe spins around to his computer and double-clicks Firefox and says, “Busy, busy, busy,” in an effort to make them all scatter and stop torturing him with their voices and opinions. He pretends to surf E! because he’s not actually going to do any research – Patrick is the only one who bothers to do research for the show. Joe’s computer is largely unused, except for playing World of Warcraft with Cash and Johnson.

His deflection doesn’t actually work, though, and Brendon says, “Look at this, Ry,” and Ryan says flatly, “Wow,” and, “This is so not surprising, really.”

Jon clasps Joe’s shoulder and Joe tilts his head back to look up into his truly sympathetic face. Jon’s a good guy. Maybe Joe can get Jon to share a tiny bit of his stash later. Lent was, like, months ago.

Ryan says, “I think I could help you out with number ten here.”

Joe doesn’t want to know what number ten is, he really doesn’t. He peeks over at the paper anyway.

“I don’t know, dude,” Jon says, rubbing at his beard thoughtfully, “what about the freakishly proportioned disclaimer?”

“Oh, gross,” Brendon says, pulling a face.

Joe heartily agrees.

*

“I’m pretty sure I hate you all,” Joe says around a mouth full of nachos. Another Friday afternoon, another drunken taco fest with the gals. Already, the world’s a little blurrier. “I now know way too much about Ross’s dick and it’s your fault. All of you.”

The week had gone surprisingly fast, and Joe’s neighbor Naked Cop Bob – although Joe is seriously still suspicious about the cop part of that - has been surprisingly solicitous about his late night comings and goings. He hasn’t woken Joe up at all, and Joe’s gotten to sleep until his alarm four out of the five days; Hemmy’d eaten something truly foul he’d found in the yard on Wednesday and spent most of the small hours of the morning hacking up dead things all over Joe’s bedroom floor.

Ashlee giggle-snorts into her hands, eyes dancing.

Brendon is waving his hands around. He says, “I know, I _know_ ,” and nods firmly at Joe, because they are of like minds, Joe thinks. There’s just some shit that they should never have to know about.

Greta pokes Joe in the side – Joe should’ve thought twice about taking up the seat next to her – and says, “Speaking of dicks,” – the word seems extra wrong coming from Greta, and Joe feels a little spike of nausea tickle low in his throat – “Jon says you saw your druggie neighbor naked.”

Joe groans. Fucking Jon and his fucking – perfect – weed. “He was just— _there_ ,” Joe says. There and _awesome_. With an impressive ass. And, like, thighs. Right.

Joe definitely hadn’t been peeking out his kitchen window every morning that week, hoping for another look. Joe is not a pervert. Mostly.

“I’m not a pervert,” Joe says.

Ballato laughs. “Oh yeah, right, now that’s the god’s honest truth.”

Joe needs more beer. He steals Brendon’s glass, and Brendon just pouts at him, because Brendon is too good-natured to actually hurt Joe for stealing his beer, unlike Greta or Ballato, who would likely take off Joe’s hand, and possibly his dick – and, seriously, what the fuck.

“I hate you,” Joe says. He feels like this needs to be _known_. They have to motherfucking believe him about this, and then maybe stop dragging him to Lupe’s every week.

“Oh wait, wait,” Ashlee says. She presses the tip of her finger into the table, sliding it along until it bumps up against the giant plate of nachos. “Wait, have you seen whatshisname, the guy—the new guy. The _new guy_ , guys.”

Brendon says, “His eyes want to eat me.”

“They do.” Ashlee nods. “They totally do, hon.”

*

Joe tapes all _The Soup_ ’s because he thinks Joel McHale is hilarious and he pretty much lives for all the times that he makes Joe look like an ass. Or, like, just highlights the fact that Joe’s an ass, which Joe very neatly proves almost every morning, all by his lonesome.

Joe’s even made a cameo, back when they’d had that one show where he kept bringing up Conway Twitty – and that was the last time Joe ever did the show stoned, seriously, Andy had been pretty pissed about it.

It is indeed a dark day when Joe doesn’t want to watch the latest _Soup_ , because he knows, knows deep down inside, that they’ve clipped the shit out of their fucking perfect man list. He’s sitting in the den with all the lights off late Friday night, Hemmy breathing heavily through his gaping mouth on the couch next to him, and he’s no longer half as drunk as he was when he’d heated up that mac and cheese for dinner. He wishes he were the kind of guy who kept hard liquor.

He should be out. He should be out with Andy and Jon and Patrick and Bill and that new dude, Gabe. He should be watching Brendon flirt, badly, with Ryan’s best friend Spencer. Instead, he’s curled up on the sofa and his fingers are automatically flipping to E! and he’s fully prepared to see the recap of Monday’s complete train-wreck of a show, summed up in a five to ten second clip. He’s not disappointed.

“This week on _The Morning After_ , the gang got a little feisty,” Joel pauses, cocks his head, “and a little introspective.”

Cue a clip of Brendon giggling his ass off and almost slipping out of his chair. There’s a cut back to an inquisitive looking Joel, a hmmm at his lips, and this isn’t so bad. Surprising, considering the fact that what had preceded Brendon’s total hilarity was an unfortunate conversation about Ryan’s penis—and oh fucking _god_ , Joe’d had his head down for most of that segment, so he’d missed Ashlee’s hand gestures, but, apparently, Joel hadn’t. And it’s—okay, it’s some funny shit, Joe will admit that.

Some seriously hilarious shit, especially when they bring out Man-kini and all the sausages.

Bill may be right. This whole perfect man fiasco could definitely spike their ratings.

*

On Saturday, Joe gets a little high and washes his car, in that exact order. The sponge feels kind of awesome and squishy and it’s fucking hot out, so he doesn’t mind when his jeans get completely soaked. His t-shirt is plastered against his chest and his nose feels _crispy_ , so Greta is totally going to kick his ass on Monday.

“Hey.”

Joe jumps and spins and hits Bob in the center of his chest with a spray of water. Which is—just fucking funny and Joe thinks maybe he’s going to throw up, he starts laughing so hard. He reaches out and grasps Bob’s arm and sort of hunches over and wheezes, a hand on his knee, almost gasping, seriously, he can’t _breathe_.

“Something funny?”

“Something’s—” Joe takes a couple gulps of air and shakes his head, straightens up and tilts back so he can look at Bob properly, because hell _yeah_. “Something’s _hilarious_ , dude, oh my god—” Bob’s face. Bob’s face is _hysterical_ , water dripping off the end of his nose.

“Watch it, Trohman,” Bob says, _growls_ really, and Joe’s hilarity peters off into a few hiccupy giggles, but he can’t wipe the stupid grin from his face.

“Hey, when you’re being all sneaky, dude, you gotta take what you get,” Joe says. He swipes Bob’s wet chest with the flat of his hand, bunches up the fabric a little. He can feel Bob’s muscles shift under his palm. Cool.

And then Bob crowds Joe up against his car, wraps his hands around Joe’s upper arms to keep him still.

Joe, amazingly, _is_ still. He can feel the heat from Bob’s body and Joe’s mind flashes back to the week before, to Naked Cop Bob, and he’s suddenly extremely conscious of the fact that Bob’s soaked shirt is, like, clinging in awesome places. It’s not so much funny anymore.

“Um.”

Bob grins. “Caught your show on Monday,” he says.

“Oh shit.”

Bob’s grin widens, gets this kind of evil, scary edge. “It was very—enlightening.”

Joe grimaces. “Yeah, okay.” He debates squirming, but doesn’t think he can actually shake Bob off, and it’d probably just make him press up against Bob in embarrassing, yet potentially rocking ways. Joe is in a quandary. He has a dilemma here, almost, especially when Bob takes a step closer.

“Huh.” Joe thinks maybe if he spreads his legs a little, Bob could slide right in. Also, Joe realizes that wet denim is not at all comfortable. He wants to tug at his crotch, but he thinks Bob’ll get the wrong idea. Or the right idea. Whatever.

Chests not quite touching, Bob looks down at him with these fierce blue eyes, and Joe kind of loses all ability to talk, throat dried up and mouth full of cotton. Bob very slowly moves his grip down Joe’s arm, twists the hose nozzle out of Joe’s hand without taking his gaze off Joe’s.

And then he takes a careful step back, aims and fires.

Joe splutters as the water hits his face. “Mother _fucker_ ,” he says with a surprised laugh. He lunges for the hose again, but Bob’s quicker than he looks, and Joe’s completely drenched before he gives up, sagging against the garage door. “Yield, I fucking yield, dude,” he says, panting.

“Good,” Bob says, and then—

Then, somehow, Bob’s mouth ends up on top of Joe’s. Joe is, like, stunned, fucking _flabbergasted_ , even, and also—also, he seems to be kissing Bob back. And gripping Bob’s shirt at his collarbones and hitching a leg up against Bob’s side and, like, licking into Bob’s mouth and really. _Really_.

“Hang on, what,” Joe says, jerking his head back. “What the fuck?”

Bob gives him a level stare, like _Joe’s_ the one who attacked _his_ face. His throat is flushed, though, and one corner of his mouth is quirked up, and he lets Joe go and, like, pats his _shoulder_ before stepping away.

“Later,” Bob says, and Joe swears, _swears_ he’s fucking whistling under his breath as he walks across the drive.

There is seriously something going on with Bob. Fuck if Joe knows what it is.

*

Tuesday, Patrick and Ballato practically have a smackdown over Justin Timberlake. Joe leans back in his chair, fascinated, as always, with how red Patrick’s face can get when he’s pissed off. It’s pretty impressive. Joe’s waiting for him to storm off the stage, like he did that time when Pete called Ella Fitzgerald overrated.

“Have you heard from Greta?” Brendon asks Joe during a commercial break, while Andy’s trying to talk Patrick down from pop-induced crazy. Brendon bites his lower lip. “She didn’t even call in, dude, I’m worried.”

It’s definitely weird for Greta to just not show up for work, but Joe figures maybe she took a vacation day and everyone just forgot about it.

After the show, though, Joe gets cornered by Bill and Bill’s hand-wringing ways and overly-dramatic pauses and learns that Greta isn’t answering her cell or home phone, either.

And then Joe gets a call from Pete.

“What the fuck, Pete, how are you Greta’s emergency contact?” Joe asks, because, seriously, _Pete_?

“Her folks are flying in, man, and Morris wouldn’t pick up his fucking phone. I’m, like, number four in her cell.”

Joe is still fucking amazed he’s on there at all, but whatever. That isn’t really the thing to focus on here. The thing to focus on is the fact that Greta’s in the fucking hospital.

*

Sometimes, Joe misses the old days of college radio. He misses when it was just him and Patrick and two mikes and their extremely insistent favorite caller, Pete Wentz, back before he was Pete Wentz; back when he was just this dude who bugged the shit out of Patrick by daily proclaiming his undying love on air.

Now he’s got fucking paparazzi stalking him outside County General.

“They’re like fucking vultures, man,” Joe says.

Bill ignores him and goes for the front desk, flutters his hands and says, “Miss Greta Salpeter, please.”

Patrick stomps past the automatic doors five seconds later, muttering under his breath, and Ashlee and Brendon show up just as Bill’s waving them frantically towards the elevator.

“Now,” Bill says when they pile in, “now, nobody panic, okay?” Bill looks like he’s panicking enough for all of them, so Joe nods.

“Sure, man,” Joe says, and Patrick arches an is-he-for-real? eyebrow, but nods, too.

Ashlee says, “She’ll be fine, sweetie,” and gives Bill a half-hug and Bill slumps into her, arm draped around her neck, and it looks pretty funny, actually, since Bill’s over a full head taller than her. Ashlee doesn’t seem to mind.

Greta’s in room 304. She’s pale against the white sheets and her hair looks greasy and there’s this big, scary bandage on her head and one on her neck and there’s bruising, a nasty black eye and a cut on her cheek, and Joe doesn’t know what to say. Her eyes are closed, lashes spread dark on her skin.

“She hasn’t woken up yet,” Bill says in a hush, hands clasped together. “They said—they said she _hasn’t woken up_.”

Ashlee sneaks up behind him and wraps her arms around his waist, pressing her cheek into his back.

Joe hangs back, and Brendon latches onto his wrist, eyes huge.

He whispers out of the side of his mouth, “She’s so _still_.”

Patrick walks up and curls his fingers over the bedrail, frowning down at her. “Well, fuck,” he says.

Joe’s, “Dude, yeah,” just kind of slips out.

*

It’s late when Joe finally makes it home. He’s shaky from exhaustion and fear, because Greta still hasn’t woken up and her mom had been bawling and Bill is kind of falling apart and Brendon’s, like, ten times smaller than usual and Joe doesn’t actually want to be alone, but they all left the hospital anyway.

There aren’t any lights on next door, but there’s an orange flare by the porch, like the butt of a cigarette, and then a voice says, “Yo.”

Joe gives the vague, dark shape of Bob a half-hearted wave. He trudges up his front stoop, triggering his motion light. He shades his eyes and unlocks his door, then backs out of the way for Hemmy to amble down the steps. Hemmy heads for the patch of grass right next to Bob’s side door, and Joe follows along behind.

He makes himself at home beside Bob on his porch steps, elbows propped up on raised knees. “So you’re a cop,” Joe says.

He watches Bob arch an eyebrow in the dim light spilling across the driveway. “Yeah,” Bob says.

Bob’s a guy of few words, Joe thinks.

“Huh,” Joe says.

Bob crushes the end of his cigarette against the concrete walk at their feet. “That surprising?” he asks.

Joe shrugs. “Kinda thought you were drunk all the time.”

Bob’s silent. He lights another cigarette before passing the pack to Joe, but Joe just flips it over and over in his hands before handing it back.

“I’m not,” Bob says finally.

Joe nods his head. “Figured that one out.” He taps his head. “I’m not actually dumb. Mostly.”

Bob laughs a little and knocks their shoulders together. “Sure,” he says.

Joe feels weird. Like maybe he’s supposed to do something – make some sort of _move_ here, right. Joe’s awesome at making moves. Bob’s just a little intimidating. He ends up with an awkward hand gesture and stares off into the street, trying to will away the heat flushing up his throat.

And then he feels Bob’s hand clamp over the back of his neck, and it’s awesome and warm and, like, soothing, and Joe doesn’t want to move ever again. He wants to live right there forever.

“Everything okay?” Bob asks.

“Peachy,” Joe says. “You know, just, a good friend was beaten unconscious last night, but other than that.”

Bob’s hand tightens, kind of painfully. “Sorry,” he says, before letting up on his grip slightly, and Joe doesn’t know if he’s sorry for almost snapping his neck or sorry about Greta, but it doesn’t really matter.

Joe says, “Thanks.”

 

*  
Work is subdued the next day, and even Lacey seems upset. He doesn’t glare at Joe as much – and Joe has long since given up trying to figure out why Lacey hates him, but at least Lacey hates Bill, too, with a fiery, fiery passion, so he’s not alone there – and he doesn’t seem to be cackling as gleefully as usual with his network cronies.

Bill still looks heartbroken. He’s slumped in a seat, and Gabe is petting his head and making faces that Joe guesses might be sympathetic, but end up vaguely frightening, and Joe can totally see the eating thing now that Brendon was talking about.

Brendon is draped all over Jon’s back, which isn’t so different than usual, but he’s not even _pouting_. He’s just got a gray cast to his face, like he hasn’t slept, and his eyes are dull.

Greta may be scary, but she’s a sweetheart. Joe doesn’t understand how anyone could hurt her.

“They’re saying it’s Morris,” Johnson says. He’s got half a donut in his mouth, a backwards baseball cap holding his hair back.

“It’s not Morris,” Jon says.

Joe scratches his head. He doesn’t think it’s Morris either, but no one’s been able to get in contact with him. It looks kind of bad.

“It’s not Bob,” Faller says, scowling. “Fuck, it’s not _Bob_ , are you serious?”

Johnson rolls his eyes. “I didn’t say it was, dude. I’m just saying. He’s, like, number one on the suspect list.”

“How do you even know that?” Brendon asks. He digs his chin into Jon’s shoulder, grip stretching the collar of Jon’s t-shirt.

“I have ways, man. Mysterious ways.” Johnson waggles his eyebrows. Johnson’s mysterious ways are what always get Joe killed in World of Warcraft. Johnson’s mysterious ways are really fucking annoying, and it’s possible that Joe’s a little jealous.

“Yeah, well, the show must go on, kids,” Brian says, sneaking up behind them all, and holy shit, Brian’s _never_ on the floor. Joe’s always suspected that Brian was surgically attached to the sound booth. It’s weird hearing his voice outside of a microphone.

“Holy shit, dude,” Johnson says.

Brian arches an eyebrow at them. “What?”

“Are you okay? Is everything okay? What’s going on? Is it Greta?” Bill asks, fluttering over with Gabe slinking right behind, hands in his pockets.

“Everything’s fine,” Brian says. He’s completely fucking calm, because nothing ever rocks Brian. “Greta’s mom called, she’s awake.”

“Oh, thank fucking Christ,” Bill says. Joe thinks maybe he’s going to faint, but at the last moment he seems to rally himself and clutches at Brian’s arm.

Brian’s gaze dips to where Bill’s gripping him, but Bill doesn’t take the hint. Bill doesn’t normally take hints.

“Was it Morris?” Bill asks.

Brian says, “They don’t know. She didn’t see anyone.”

“It’s not fucking Bob, shut the fuck up,” Faller practically yells.

“Whoa,” Joe says. He never figured Faller for such a foul mouth, seriously. He’s usually pretty quiet. “Dial it back a notch, Faller, nobody’s saying Morris is a potential psycho killer here. Right?”

Bill makes a face.

“Right?” Joe asks again, and he wonders when he became the voice of reason. Probably shortly after Lent. Fucking tricksy Jon Walker.

“This is great and all, chatting with you,” Brian says, “but unless we want fucking Barbara Walters to chuck us out of our time slot, I suggest you all get on stage and do your fucking jobs.”

This is a valid observation. Barbara Walters is, like, a goddess to the network. She can banish them with a finger point.

“Where’s Patrick?” Jon asks.

“Here,” Patrick says, slipping around Ryan in the doorway and batting him away from his trucker hat at the same time. Ryan hates trucker hats. There’s no way Ryan’s going to let Patrick wear that on air. “Here,” he says again, this time tossing Brendon a CD. “New Slow Club, Bren, special treat.”

Brendon makes a happy noise and hugs the CD to his chest. “Oh my god. Oh my god, can we talk about Let’s Fall Back In Love again, can we?”

“I’m not getting into another conversation about folksy pop,” Ballato says.

“We’ll see,” Ashlee says ominously, because Pete, once upon a time, had the crazy insane notion of putting Ashlee in charge as Prime Host. “We shall see.”

*

“We’re getting a beer,” Bob says as Joe’s slipping out of his car, and Joe jumps and hits his head on the doorframe, because what the fuck.

“Maybe you could try a little harder at the stealth, dude, you’re not quite ninja yet,” Joe says, rubbing his head.

Bob quirks an amused lip. “Yeah, maybe.”

Joe snorts, and then Bob’s words catch up to him and he says, “Wait, what?” Is Bob asking him _out_? And is it, like, buddy-out, or. Or something else, something involving Bob attacking his face again. Joe would probably not be adverse to that, honestly.

“Beer. Maybe dinner, have you eaten?”

Joe glances at his watch. It’s, like, 4:30 in the afternoon. Unless Joe’s secretly a senior citizen, it’s a good bet that he hasn’t eaten yet. “Um. No?”

There’s a suspicious redness around Bob’s collar. Bob shifts on his feet and says, “Good.”

“Right.” Joe nods. _Aw_ kward.

“We can—” Bob starts, just as Joe says, “I should—”

Bob waves a hand and Joe says again, “I should let Hemmy out. I’ll, um—be over in fifteen?”

Bob says, “Okay.” He’s smiling a little and staring at Joe, and Joe’s never been an eyes guy, really, but Bob has awesome eyes. Like, seriously hardcore awesome eyes, and Joe’s really fucked. He was fucked before, yes, but now it’s _for real_.

*

Bob’s idea of dinner and beer seems to be a six pack out of his fridge and take-out pizza. Joe isn’t complaining, even though he has no fucking clue what to talk to this dude about, especially since Bob’s the most laconic fucker Joe’s ever met.

Hemmy’s sprawled over Joe’s feet, snoring. He jostles his toes and Hem just snorts and rolls over so his belly’s exposed. Joe tugs out one sock-foot and absently pets him.

Bob makes an amused sound and Joe slants him a look. Bob is settled at the corner of the couch in an oversized black hoodie, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, and khaki shorts. Bob has shorn pale blonde hair, darker scruff shading his jaw and upper lip. He’s frowning, but he’s not looking at Joe, so that’s something.

The thing is, Bob isn’t exactly Joe’s type. Although, seriously, Joe hasn’t been on an actual date in close to forever, and it’s been three fucking months since he’s had sex – which isn’t really indicative of his tastes, since it was Cash, and Cash is a massive douche and Joe had been very, very drunk at the time – so it’s possible that Joe has no idea what his type _is_. Maybe a strong, silent guy would be right up his alley. Maybe. If Joe could stop feeling like Bob’s a second away from punching him all the time. Joe’s hoping he just has some sort of mean resting face.

“So, uh—”

Bob shifts his attention from the TV to Joe, and Joe fucking freezes. It’s kind of embarrassing. Bob arches an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

“Nothing,” Joe says, and wow. Wow, Joe’s awesome at this. Joe’s officially the smoothest dude ever born, seriously.

Before he can make an even bigger ass of himself, his cell phone beeps and Joe tugs it out of his pocket, thumbing open a text from Pete.

It says: _dude wears my dog_

Joe groans. _fucking finally_ , he writes back, _ballatos starting to get that twitch again_. Prolonged exposure to Brendon always does that to her. It’s funny and sad at the same exact time.

 _pic me up btch_ , Pete sends.

Joe gives Bob an apologetic look. “I have to take off, man,” he says. “There’s this asshole who doesn’t know how to call a fucking cab.”

Bob’s expression doesn’t change. He nods and says, “Okay,” and Joe would be one-hundred percent sure Bob isn’t interested in him at all, except for the fact that Bob is staring at his mouth.

And then Bob’s hand is curling into the front of Joe’s t-shirt and he’s hauling Joe closer and Joe’s cooperating, Joe’s totally letting Bob pull him practically onto his lap, and he flattens his hands on Bob’s chest, one bent knee sliding over Bob’s thigh, and Joe barely has time to gulp a breath before Bob’s got a hand in his hair, pressure pulling him down so their noses are touching.

“Um. Hi?” Joe says, and Bob flashes this weirdly sly smile and slants their mouths together.

Joe’s fingers automatically curl, digging into the fabric of Bob’s hoodie, and he makes an embarrassing choked noise in the back of his throat. Bob tugs on his hair and licks open his mouth and Joe arches his back when Bob’s palm slides down his spine. Bob has the back of Joe’s shirt up around his shoulder blades in seconds and Joe is well on his way to getting naked, he senses this, and then his phone beeps again.

“Sorry, sorry,” Joe says, pushing away and scrambling off Bob’s lap, because if he doesn’t get out of there then, he’ll likely never leave, and Pete’ll torture him for fucking ever for leaving him hanging.

Bob has his legs spread and his face is flushed, but otherwise he looks completely fucking composed, which makes Joe feel a little weird, like he shouldn’t be as out of breath as he so obviously is, but Bob’s hands are fisted on his thighs, and his eyes seem to have a little touch of I’ll-fuck-you-up in them. Like maybe if Bob ever gets Joe alone again, he just better watch the fuck out. Joe doesn’t know if it’s odd that he finds that really, really hot.

“I’ll, uh, see you later.” Joe wonders when he lost the ability to converse like a normal human being. He’s just going to go ahead and blame the marked lack of weed in his life now, and makes a mental note to hang out with Jon Walker more often.

*

“Ah, it’s good to be back,” Pete says, clapping his hands together and grinning manically.

There’s a chorus of, “Hey, Pete,” from all corners of the studio.

Patrick adjusts his hat and glares at him, but Pete just makes a face and says, “Pattycake!” and Patrick’s scowl slips enough for Pete to draw him into a hug. “I missed you most of all,” Pete says.

Patrick says, “Sure, Pete,” but Joe thinks he sounds pleased.

Joe leans back in his chair and hitches his feet up on top of the table, his notes slipping under his boots. They’ve got a half hour to airtime, and Joe’s eyes slide closed. He’d been up late the night before, but mainly because the house had seemed disturbingly empty without Hemmy and Hemmy’s snores from the foot of his bed.

The chair next to him screeches and then Brendon’s stage-whispering, “Bill says we’ve got _The Today Show_ ,” excitedly in his ear.

Joe turns his head slowly and blinks at him. “What?”

Brendon does jazz hands. “ _The Today Show_! They want to talk about our perfect man list tomorrow.”

“Are you fucking serious?” Joe says, and he laughs a little, because what the fuck. _The Today Show_. That’s fucking surreal; they’re, like, on an overlapping timeslot with them. “Is Brian even going to let us go? That’ll only leave Patrick and Pete to cover the show.”

Brendon frowns. “Oh. I didn’t think of that.”

It’s not entirely unheard of, though. There was that time that Joe and Ashlee went on vacation and Pete took Patrick and Brendon and Johnson and a single handheld camera out on the road – “The harsh Chicago _streets_ ” – and they all made asses of themselves in public. So there’s a precedent. Brian might let them do it.

“Brian’s _definitely_ going to let you do it,” Bill says. “This’ll be awesome for ratings. Pete and Patrick can argue over rockabilly and teen angst, it’ll be prefect.”

“I’m not arguing with Patrick,” Pete says grandly, “because I agree with everything that ever comes out of Patrick’s pretty little mouth.”

“That’s the biggest load of shit I’ve ever heard,” Johnson says, looking up from where he’s fiddling with camera three.

“You watch your mouth,” Pete says, pointing at him, but he’s still grinning with all his teeth.

*

 _The Today Show_ interview goes great, even though Joe had been stoned and couldn’t remember half of what he said. He’s pretty sure he called Matt Lauer a handsome dude more than once.

“Well, he _is_ a very handsome man,” Bill says later, leaning against Joe’s cubicle wall. Their own show had gone over well, apparently, and Pete and Patrick had gotten into some sort of slap fight. Joe can’t wait to watch.

“Okay, that’s weird,” Ashlee says.

Joe puts a knee up on his counter, folds his arms over the wall separating his space from Ashlee’s. “What?”

Ashlee’s got her face scrunched up. “The forums,” she says, pointing to her computer screen.

William rounds Joe’s wall and hangs over Ashlee’s shoulder, bracing a hand on her desk. He makes a distressed sound and his eyes go huge. “Oh, my,” he says. “Oh, that can’t be good. In fact, I’m sure that’s very bad. Do you think Ryan’s seen this yet?”

“What?” Joe asks again.

“People are taking exception to Patrick’s hat, the one with the feather. Ryan’s going to go ballistic, you realize,” Bill says, and Ashlee frowns even deeper and says, “I was actually more worried about the death threats myself.”

Joe says, “ _Death_ threats?” They’ve gotten a lot of crap on the forums before, but Joe doesn’t remember ever having death threats.

“Oh, that.” Bill waves a hand, narrows his eyes on the computer screen as he reads. “It’s just calling you hussies for your perfect man list. Blah, blah, blah, messy painful death, no big.”

“I’m not a hussy,” Joe says. Maybe it’s not the part to focus on, but seriously. So untrue, no matter what Pete says.

Ashlee grabs Bill’s sleeve and tilts her head to look up at him. “You do realize Greta’s in the hospital, Bill, that she was nearly beaten to death, right?”

Bill blanches. “No one wants Greta dead,” he says firmly. “It was a mistake. A random, senseless act of violence and burglaring. The police are very adamant about that.”

Ashlee pats Bill’s hand. “Of course, Billy,” she says, but she shoots Joe a wary look.

Joe isn’t sure if they should really panic or not – their fans are crazy, yeah, but nine times out of ten they’re not actually _dangerous_ \- but he’s thinking about erring on the side of caution here. Thank god he lives next door to a cop.

*

Joe checks all his locks twice before settling down to watch TV that night, and even then he keeps getting up to glance out his windows, watching for Bob. Bob’s house remains distressingly dark. Joe doesn’t think he’s going to get very much sleep.

He starts to nod off anyway, though, the light from the TV screen flickering behind his closed eyelids, and then he’s jerked out of a doze by his cell blasting A-Punk. Brendon.

“Y’ello,” Joe says through a yawn, rubbing a hand over his stomach and stretching back against the couch.

“I think—I think there’s someone in my house,” Brendon says, a harsh whisper.

Joe straightens up, startled, and says, “Brendon, little dude, why are you telling _me_? Did you call the police?” He’s already on his feet, though, and then he’s snagging his keys off the kitchen counter, and heading for the door.

“Joe, hey—oh shit,” Brendon says, and then the line goes dead. Joe really doesn’t like that. That, Joe thinks, is a really fucking bad sign.

Brendon lives ten minutes away from Joe. He dials Brendon’s number fifteen times on his way over, each turn over to voicemail ratcheting up Joe’s panic, and it isn’t until he’s turning onto Brendon’s street that he thinks, _shit_ , and that _he_ should’ve called the police.

He pulls up and parks in front of Brendon’s house, but before his fingers find the door handle, there’s a thump and then pale hands slapping flat against his window. Joe doesn’t even have time to react. One of the hands slips down and the door pops open and then Brendon’s crawling inside, shoving Joe into the console between the front seats.

“Joe, Joe,” Brendon says, pajama clad bottom scooting onto Joe’s lap. “Oh my god, Joe.” He folds himself up and slams the door and locks it, panting.

“Dude,” Joe says. Brendon’s small, but Joe’s still kind of squished here.

“I’m not getting out.”

“Okay,” Joe says, hands fisting in Brendon’s t-shirt. “Where’s your phone?”

“I dropped it?” Brendon’s gripping the steering wheel, white-knuckled.

“Did you call the police?”

Brendon shakes his head. “I called Ryan.”

Joe blinks. Joe can’t think of any reason why Ryan would be at all helpful in this situation. Granted, he can’t think of why _he_ would be helpful in this situation, so. “So you called Ryan and you called me. Did you—did you even _see_ anyone?”

Brendon tips his head back onto Joe’s shoulder. “Noises, Joe, I heard _noises_. Ominous rustlings!” Brendon says, and then, “Oh fuck, _Dylan_.” Brendon tenses up and then reaches for the door handle.

“Okay,” Brendon says. “If I’m not back in ten minutes—”

“Fuck that,” Joe says, pushing Brendon out onto the sidewalk and then following after. He’s not letting Brendon go back into his house _alone_ , seriously, Joe didn’t come all this way just to let Brendon get eaten.

*

Ryan and Spencer show up the same time as a flashing police cruiser.

Brendon’s cuddling Dylan in his lap, and Joe’s hands are shaking. He hit that motherfucking prowler with a lamp. That sort of shit doesn’t happen outside of movies.

“What the fuck, Brendon,” Ryan says.

Ryan and Spencer both have crazy sleep hair and Ryan’s sweatpants are barely clinging to his sharp hips. Spencer has a pinched scowl on his face, and Joe’s pretty sure his pajama pants have tiny tumbling kittens all over them. Joe is focusing on the little things. It’d be really bad if he fell apart.

“We were attacked,” Brendon says, and then Spencer shocks the hell out of Joe by grabbing Brendon’s arms and pulling him up into a hug. He whispers something in Brendon’s ear, mouth still an unhappy curve, and Brendon ducks his face into Spencer’s shoulder. Spencer’s hands rub up and down Brendon’s back. Huh. Joe really hadn’t seen that coming.

Ryan looks grumpy, but concerned. He arches an eyebrow at Joe. “You all right?” he asks.

“Great,” Joe says, and then he spots Bob. Bob, plain clothed, with a blue uniformed guy sporting a fro that spins Joe into momentary nostalgia.

Bob looms over Joe.

Joe’s insides well with relief and something he’s reluctant to name. “Hey, Bob,” Joe says.

Brendon turns his head, sill huddled up close to Spencer, Dylan buried between them, and says, “There was a burglar, guys, Joe hit him with my _lamp_.”

“I’m awesome like that,” Joe says. He kind of wishes his voice sounded stronger.

“You’re a fucking idiot,” Bob says, scowling. He hauls Joe to his feet, and the bones of Joe’s wrist grind together under his grip.

Joe would’ve gone for _brave_ , but he’s a little bit giddy on adrenalin, so whatever. “Thanks,” Joe says. He feels light-headed, and maybe nauseous.

The door opens behind them, and the uniformed cop steps out, and Joe can’t even remember him going inside in the first place.

“Whoever it was is gone,” he says - legs spread to showcase some truly spectacular thighs, Joe thinks - holding up a sandwich sized baggie. “Back door’s wide open. Found this, though.”

“What?” Brendon asks.

“Is this either of yours?”

Joe leans into the light over Brendon’s front door. It’s a cell phone, but Joe doesn’t recognize it, flat and electric blue.

“Oh, hey.” Brendon steps away from Spencer, takes the bag from the officer and turns it over. “I think this is Singer’s.”

*

The idea that Singer had broken into Brendon’s house with intent to harm is laughable. Joe tries to get Bob to see this. Singer’s, like, this skinny little dude with big eyes and a tendency to follow Cash around with puppy-like devotion. Joe isn’t exactly Singer’s favorite person – there was that whole Cash and sex thing, and it’s nearly impossible to keep any secrets at the studio – but everyone loves Brendon. With the exception of Ballato, and maybe Frank, but they totally don’t count – Frank doesn’t even work there, he just hangs out to bug the fuck out of Brian.

And the guy—okay, so maybe Joe doesn’t really have a crystal clear memory here, what with all the intense fear, but he doesn’t think the guy he hit with Brendon’s lamp was Singer. For one thing, Singer never would’ve been able to get up after that. He’s all delicate and shit.

“They arrested Alex,” Bill says. Bill looks like he’s close to having a stroke. Bill needs to calm the fuck down.

“Calm down,” Joe says. “They can’t prove anything. I was there, dude, it wasn’t Singer.”

“I don’t know, man,” Johnson says. “Singer’s wily.”

“Wily! Did you hear that, Trohman? Alex is _wily_.” Bill needs to pull up a couch, down some meds and rest for a while.

“Alex is a fucking gopher, Bills,” Butcher says, slapping him on the back.

“He gets me donuts,” Johnson says, nodding. “That doesn’t mean he’s not wily.”

“Do you want him to be jailed for the rest of his life?” Bill says, poking his finger into Johnson’s chest.

Johnson shrugs. “Well, B and E doesn’t exactly make him a lifer—”

“I can’t believe you’re joking about this,” Bill says.

Johnson just stares at him. His expression doesn’t really change, but his voice is pretty serious when he says, “Singer did not try and kill Brendon. Or Greta, for that matter. Dude, chill.”

Bill makes unhappy faces. “I can’t just—”

“What the fuck happened to you?” Butcher says, and Joe follows his eyeline, watching Gabe amble over towards where they’re gathered around reception.

Gabe rubs absently at the bandage across his jaw, hissing a little through his teeth. “Adventures in straight razors. Did you know they laugh at you for that in the ER?”

“Huh.” Joe cocks his head, thinks he sees some slight discoloration around the white tape, but this is Gabe. Gabe isn’t harmless, but he’s fucking distinctive. Joe’s pretty sure he’d remember if he hit him with a lamp.

Bill clucks his tongue and cups Gabe’s face gingerly between his palms. “You’re a mess,” he says, and Gabe arches an eyebrow.

“And you, Billiam, look like you haven’t slept.”

Joe doubts Bill’s slept since Greta was hospitalized. He tends to be a mother hen with all of them. It’s endearing when he isn’t busy nagging the shit out of Joe about the nutritional contents of Hot Pockets or shoving cough drops down his throat after he, like, fucking sneezes even once.

Butcher’s intercom buzzes and Johnson hops up and leans over the front counter to press the button. “Butcher’s desk,” he says.

Brian says, “I’ve got an empty studio, folks. I’m not happy about it.”

“When is Brian ever happy?” Johnson mutters, but they all trudge off down the hall.

*

Due to the extremeness of the situation, which calls for Brendon and Brendon’s nerves -and, to a certain extent, Joe’s nerves - to get liquored up, beer and nacho day gets moved to Thursday. Or, like, Thursday is added to the rotation for the week, because Joe thinks they’re going to still need beer and nachos on Friday. He may publicly scorn Girl Lunch, but deep down inside he knows he needs the alcohol.

It’s maybe weird without Greta, but they all end up at Lupe’s anyway. Brendon regales them all with the tale of the mysterious burglar, and he waves his hands around a lot and calls Bob Joe’s _boyfriend_ , which causes Ashlee to snicker into her beer.

“Thought he was a coked-up alcoholic,” Ballato says.

“He’s a _cop_ ,” Brendon says. “He’s, like, a Viking.”

Joe quirks an eyebrow. “A what?”

“Okay,” Brendon says, ignoring Joe’s bemusement. It’s maybe not on purpose, because Brendon’s more than a little drunk. “Okay, and also, _also_ , Spencer hugged me. And then, um, I slept in his bed?”

Ashlee whistles and hoots because occasionally she’s, like, thirteen years old and a boy. “All right, Bren,” she says.

“He means,” Joe says, because he’s heard this from Ryan already, “he slept in Spencer’s bed, while Spencer slept on the couch.”

“He’s a gentleman,” Brendon says, half-defensively, half-dreamily, like he’s imagining Spencer as fucking Prince Charming or something.

“He’s an idiot,” Ballato says.

“I’m in love.” Brendon shoves a nacho in his mouth and grins as he chews. “We’re getting married, guys, it was writ in the stars! And lo, Spencer Smith was meant forever and ever for Brendon Urie, amen.”

“I can’t believe I hang out with you guys,” Ballato says, and Joe points a finger at her in silent agreement.

*

Joe doesn’t think what he and Bob are doing can be considered dating, but there’s a note on Joe’s door when he gets home.

It says: _come over_

Joe briefly thinks about ignoring the order, but Joe’s never been very contrary, and his house is kind of eerily empty – he really needs a dog of his own and, like, cats. Lots of ‘em. Joe’s a little worried that Bob’s still angry about the other night, though. Bob had Officer Toro follow him home, and Bob hadn’t really said much and he’d glared a lot and when he _did_ say something, it was just to call Joe a moron.

Joe drops his bag in the house and then walks across the driveway to Bob’s, hands stuffed in his pockets.

Bob’s face is impassive when he opens the door. He crosses his arms over his chest and doesn’t invite Joe inside, which is actually kind of rude, but whatever.

“Yeah?” Joe says.

“They cleared your friend,” Bob says finally.

Joe nods. “Good.” He makes a mental note to stop for cupcakes tomorrow before work; Singer’ll probably need them.

“Now,” Bob says, “you want to tell me what the fuck you thought you were doing?”

It’s the single longest sentence he’s ever gotten out of Bob. Joe would be impressed if the words didn’t piss him off. “Whoa,” Joe says, holding up a hand. “Brendon’s my friend, dude, what did you want me to do?”

“Stay out of it,” Bob says, and that’s totally uncalled for.

Joe is not a shitty friend; he’ll never not go into dark and scary and dangerous places if someone needs his help. “Sorry, Bob, never gonna happen.” He figures the _so deal with it_ is left nicely implied.

Bob arches an eyebrow. His face is flushed, but Joe doesn’t think he’s embarrassed or anything, just mad.

Joe swallows hard and tries not to think about how hot Bob is when he’s mad. Or, like, any other time.

And then it seems like the talking portion of the evening is over – Bob probably used up his monthly allotment of words – and Bob slips a big hand over Joe’s waist and tugs him inside.

*

There are some things that are just sacred. Like video games.

Joe blames the fact that he’s never actually played this game sober for why he’s losing. Really badly.

Also, he blames the fact that he hadn’t exactly expected to be playing Bob’s PS3 when he’d been pulled inside. Joe suspects Bob’s maybe a little shy. Or sadistic. That could totally be it.

The thing is, though, that Joe’s been thinking. He’s been thinking about Greta and Brendon and Singer’s phone, and he’s coming up with something that he doesn’t really like all that much.

“I’m done, dude,” Joe says, tossing the controller aside and rolling over, stretching out on his back on the rug, kicking his legs up onto the couch next to Bob.

Bob drops his controller between his legs and stares Joe down, and Joe lasts approximately ten seconds before blurting out, “It was someone from the studio, right? For Greta, too.”

Bob says, very carefully holding eye contact with Joe, “I’m not on that case.”

“But you were at Brendon’s,” Joe points out.

“Yeah.” Bob doesn’t offer anything more.

Joe groans and knocks his head back on the floor. “Are you going to tell me _why_ you were at Brendon’s?”

“Probably not,” Bob says placidly. Bob’s the calmest motherfucker Joe has ever known, including Brian. Okay, well, maybe not Brian. Brian didn’t even blink when Pete accidentally set his hair on fire that time, or when Bill brought that goat into the studio and it ate all of Ryan’s scarves. Plus, Bob has a temper. He only seems to be calm when it’ll maximize Joe’s irritation.

Joe narrows his eyes up at the ceiling. “Did they find Morris?” he asks, not really expecting an answer.

There’s a heavy sigh, and then Bob says, “No.”

“Huh.” Joe taps his fingers absently over his stomach.

Bob nudges him in the side with his foot and Joe bats it away, wiggling sideways, a corner of his mouth twitching up.

“Joe,” Bob says.

Joe rolls his eyes and leverages himself up on his elbows. “Yeah?”

Bob crooks a finger, and it’d be funny if it was anyone but _Bob_ doing it. “Come up here,” he says.

Joe should probably be worried about seeming too eager here, but Bob’s got this awesomely intent look on his face, and Joe’s seen that before. That’s totally a prelude to Bob spreading his hands somewhere on Joe’s bare skin, so Joe scrambles up onto the couch next to him and leans into him, bracing a hand on Bob’s thigh.

“Yeah?” Joe says again, lips fully quirked into a grin now. He’s maybe getting the hang of how this works. It’s surprisingly comfortable, especially when Bob curls a hand around the side of his throat, his other snaking down over Joe’s hip, Joe’s t-shirt twisted up over his stomach from his sideways perch against the cushions.

Bob grins, slightly feral, and then pushes Joe down onto his back, kneeling up to loom over him.

Joe tugs on the hem of Bob’s t-shirt and stares at Bob’s mouth. He’s momentarily tempted to ask if it’s naked fun time, but that reminds him too much of Brendon, and Brendon’s ability to use the terms sexytimes, pizza and naked mole rats in a discussion about Muse, all in the same sentence, while stripping off his t-shirt and shimmying his hips to Supermassive Black Hole. Some of Joe’s favorite times are spent in their dressing room, this is true, but he doesn’t necessarily want to think about Brendon while he’s trying to get off.

He blinks rapidly to get rid of the image of Half-naked Dancing Brendon and Bob’s watching him, bemused.

“All right?” Bob asks.

“Dude, _yes_ ,” Joe says, and then he’s reaching for the button on Bob’s jeans, knuckles pressing into Bob’s stomach as he fumbles them open.

Bob pushes his hands away and slides off the couch. Joe is bereft. And confused. Until Bob reaches for his hand and says, “I have a bed. I’ve been told it’s pretty comfortable.”

Joe is down with beds. Beds are right up there with showers and tables—and other horizontal surfaces, including couches; Joe thinks couches are just fine and, you know, _right there_. But he doesn’t drag his feet and lets Bob shove him up against the doorframe of the bedroom and suck on his bottom lip, and Joe is _this close_ to swooning. Joe’s, like, in a fucking romance novel here, it’s _awesome_.

“I’m gonna climb you in a minute,” Joe says against Bob’s mouth, hooking his arms over Bob’s shoulders and letting Bob press him harder against the jamb.

Bob laughs, a little breathlessly. “Good.”

*

Joe sneaks out of Bob’s house in the still-dark hours of the morning, sometime after five.

Bob grumbles in his sleep and locks his fingers around one of Joe’s wrists when he rolls away from him, but Joe twists determinedly out of his grip and murmurs, “Work.” He’s a little early, but not by much, and he doesn’t trust his sleep-deprived brain to get him up again if he falls back asleep. Brian would hunt him down and kill him if he didn’t show, and Bill would probably have a heart attack or a stroke or some sort of mental breakdown.

Joe hums groggily – yet in happy, post coital spirits - under his breath as he crosses the driveway and hops up his front steps. He jangles his keys and unlocks his front door, and when he reaches for the light switch, two things happen simultaneously. One, the light fails to actually come on, and two, Joe stumbles over something in the hallway and loses his balance, shoulder slamming into the wall before falling heavily onto his side, teeth clicking as his head bounces off the hardwood floor.

“Son of a bitch,” Joe hisses.

Laying in the dark, Joe silently takes stock of his body. Officially, Joe thinks he’s fine. Nothing feels broken or wrenched, and he’s ninety-nine percent sure he doesn’t have a concussion. Unofficially—motherfucking _ow_.

He has no idea what he’s tripped over, but the bulb in his overhead light must have popped. Climbing to his feet, he flattens his hand along the wall, following it down the corridor to the den. He fumbles for the back of the couch and moves towards the floor lamp, catching the shade with his fingers and then awkwardly groping for the switch. There’s an audible snap as the metal knob turns, but the room remains murkily dark.

Eyes finally adjusting to the lack of light, he can see the outline of his TV, his armchair. Slowly, he comes to the conclusion that his electricity is out.

Bob’s electricity had not been out. It’s a clear summer morning, and Joe had spotted Old Lady Mitchell’s kitchen light when he’d left Bob’s, so.

So there’s something rotten in the state of Joe’s house.

Joe fishes his cell out of his back pocket and flips it open, wincing slightly at the light from the LCD screen. He thinks about calling 911, that would probably be the smartest move, but he dials Bob instead, shifting restlessly on his feet as it rings. And rings.

Finally, Bob answers with a gruff, “What?”

“Hey, Bob.”

“Joe, what—”

“So I’m feeling a little like Brendon here, if you know what I—” Joe sees the glint of something ominously shiny at the last second and ducks by pure instinct, feeling a ghost of pain as an incredibly sharp object – _knife_ , his brain helpfully provides – slices into his forearm. He drops his phone with a yelp and jerks backwards, then thrusts his arms up when he sees the knife arc downward again, agonizing pain vibrating into numbness as he grapples with his shadowed assailant’s wrist, keeping the knife as far away from his body as humanly possible.

Joe’s pretty strong when he doesn’t have a dripping knife wound, but right now he can feel his muscles start to give, even with the mixture of shock and adrenalin, and he digs his fingers into the soft part of the guy’s wrist, short nails scraping into sensitive skin.

When the knife drops to the floor with a clatter, Joe automatically loosens his grip in relief. He doesn’t even see the fist until it’s inches away from his face and his head snaps back in blooming pain. He doesn’t actually black out, though, until he clocks himself on the side table just before he hits the ground.

*

The first thing Joe sees when he crawls into consciousness is Bob. Bob, scowling, framed by the dim morning light spilling through the den windows.

“You’re a lot of trouble,” Bob says. Then, “Hold still,” and when Joe opens his mouth to assure Bob that he isn’t going _anywhere_ , Bob jerks something tight around his arm and Joe almost bites his tongue in half in an effort not to scream like a little girl.

“Fuck,” he rasps.

“You’re bleeding some,” Bob says, and Joe can tell from the tightness around his eyes that he’s kind of understating that. Awesome. His arm is alternating throbbing with pain and shooting an aching heat up towards his shoulder, and his head feels like it’s being squeezed in a vise. He’s looking forward to drugs.

In the distance, Joe hears the sweet sound of sirens. “I didn’t see who it was,” he says. He’s sort of pissed about that, like this fucker’s so slippery, despite failing spectacularly at killing Greta, Brendon and himself.

Bob squeezes his good arm – oh god, he has a _good arm_ \- and says, “That’s okay.”

It isn’t until they’ve got Joe on a stretcher, wheeling him out of the house, that he sees—he sees _Lacey_ being hauled into a cop car, face bruised and bloodied but unmistakable, the louse, and since Joe doesn’t remember, you know, beating the shit out of his attacker, he’s pretty sure that’s Bob’s handiwork. Joe feels all warm and fuzzy inside.

But, like, what the fuck Lacey? Lacey’s an asshole weasel, but Joe never thought—geez. Although the blatant incompetence displayed is more or less explained now.

They slide Joe into an ambulance and Joe, rightfully, expects Bob to jump in with him, so he’s kind of surprised when the doors slam shut and Joe’s all alone with the EMTs.

Joe’s kind of offended, but whatever.

*

Joe stays overnight in the hospital because of his head wound, just to keep half an eye on him, and Brendon, Ashlee and Bill pick him up the next morning. Bill tries to bundle him up in a cardigan, despite the ninety degree weather. He hovers over him in the backseat of Ashlee’s car, and Joe lets him fuss because Joe’s _exhausted_ , and Bob didn’t even call.

Plus, he thinks maybe Bill’ll start crying.

“I heard they found a shrine about our perfect man list at his apartment,” Brendon says, twisting in the passenger seat and gripping the back to stare at Joe, eyes wide. “A _hate_ shrine. And, like, a dart board with Bill’s face on it.”

“Bill had nothing to do with the list,” Joe points out, although it’s not much of an argument, since Lacey had hated Bill on sight, back when the network first started sending him down to lurk in dark corners and lecture them on how many times they can call Pearl Jam a steaming crapheap of mediocrity, or “the band that Seatle threw up in a chunky style spill and then let MTV swirl around with a dirty janitor mop instead of just manning up and taking the blame, scrubbing the music world squeaky clean again.” Joe maybe still has some issues with Eddie Vedder - and that time Eddie Vedder told E! Joe was a hack guitarist who couldn’t cut it as a musician, so he took to gossip like a whore took to Jude Law - but he’s working through them.

Patrick, Pete and Hemmy are sitting on Joe’s front stoop when they pull up to the curb, and Pete jumps up and bounds down the steps, reaching for the car door. He practically hauls Joe out of the car, and Joe yelps, “Pete, ow!” when Pete’s thumb presses into the sore skin around the stitched up cut on his arm.

“Sorry, sorry,” Pete says, and then he wraps his arms around Joe and hugs him so hard Joe can hardly breathe. Joe doesn’t complain.

Patrick tugs on the brim of his hat and shifts his feet and gives Joe this huge relieved smile.

Hemmy snuffles Joe’s calf and grunts.

The only thing this touching scene is missing, Joe thinks, is a certain someone who sexed Joe up and then _left him to pine_.

“C’mon, c’mon, inside,” Bill says, physically prying Pete off Joe. “Joseph needs to lie down.”

“Joseph needs some coffee,” Joe says, “and possibly a Danish.” He lets Bill herd him up the walk and inside his house and into the den, but he balks at the afghan Bill tries to tuck over his legs.

“Pain pills,” Ashlee says, handing over a little bottle to Bill, and Bill shakes out two and presses them into Joe’s palm before flouncing off to get some water.

Pete wedges himself onto the couch next to Joe, and it’s not that Joe isn’t grateful for the company, but he kind of just wants to veg and maybe feel a little sorry for himself.

Brendon waves his hands and asks, “What do you need?” in his very best earnest voice, wearing his very best earnest face.

Joe doesn’t really need anything. He _wants_ Bob, because Joe’s in the mood to fall asleep atop someone who isn’t all elbows, like Bill and Pete, and because he’s Bob, and at some recent point in time Joe’s mind has started thinking about Bob as someone who always makes everything better. Like sleepless nights and knife wounds.

Pete’s doing an admirable impression of a leech and the rest of them are standing there, staring anxiously down at Joe, and Joe sighs and says, “I just want to nap.”

Bill nods his head. “Right, right,” he says, still nodding, and they’re all still staring down at Joe, so Joe adds, “Alone?”

Ashlee says, “Sure, sweetie,” and takes hold of Pete. Pete squawks and tries to grab for Joe, but Ashlee’s pretty strong for a girl.

Brendon takes care of Bill, making airplane noises as he steers him out of the room, and Joe can hear them whispering in the kitchen, and then a pot clatters to the floor and Patrick’s yelling at Pete and a faint smile curves Joe’s lips, because he loves his friends, his friends are awesome.

Joe drifts off to the familiar muffled sounds of Patrick shouting into Pete’s armpit as Pete successfully manages to get him in a headlock.

*

When Joe wakes up, the TV’s on. Low, not quite mute, and he shifts on the couch until he can see sock-feet hanging off the end of his recliner.

The room is washed in dark gold, so he figures he’s slept most of the day away.

“You awake?”

“Nnnnargh,” says Joe around a yawn. His arm is an unpleasant dull throb, but he thinks he can wait at least another half hour before downing any more pain meds.

And then the voice catches up with the words in Joe’s brain and Joe tilts his head back even farther to see the body that’s attached to the sock-feet, lounging in Joe’s armchair. Bob.

Joe fights off the urge to demand where the hell Bob has been.

Bob kicks the foot rest down and sits up, elbows on spread knees, face stony as he watches Joe try to struggle upright without hurting himself too badly. He has trouble moving his legs, and then he realizes Hemmy’s sprawled across him, head heavy on his shins.

Before he can pull his legs out from under Hemmy, though, there’s a hand on the back of his shoulder, urging him forward, and then Bob’s knee is sinking down into the cushions and Joe’s being gently manhandled into a surprisingly comfortable position leaning against Bob’s chest. Huh.

“You scared about decade off my life,” Bob says.

Joe turns so his ear is pressed over Bob’s heart, listening to the steady, reassuring thumps. He grins, maybe just a little smug, because Bob had been worried about him, and Bob totally can’t resist Joe’s rocking charms. “Dude,” he says, “awesome.”

*

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Ashlee says with a flourish, “Joe Trohman and Patrick Stump.”

Joe hums and strums his guitar and arches his eyebrows at Patrick. Some days, Bill lets Joe and Patrick have a five minute jam segment; where they make fun of pop punk and then go ahead and do it better.

Patrick leans into his mike, tucking his own guitar close to his stomach, and says, “This is a song Pete wrote about his dog.”

“And sunny days,” Pete yells from off stage.

“And sunny days,” Joe says, nodding. His hair is growing back nicely, and it flops satisfyingly over his eyes.

“And not having what you can actually have,” Pete says, this time walking into the shot, grinning with all his teeth.

“It’s about my boyfriend,” Joe says, and Ashlee wolf-whistles and Brendon does a little shimmy as he sneaks up beside them.

Joe plays the beginning riff of Stairway to Heaven. Eddie Vedder can go fuck himself; Joe is a rock _god_.

“We’re not actually filming yet, right?” Pete says, and Brian groans in Joe’s ear and says, “Fucking hell, Pete, we’re _live_.”

Pete’s _oops_ face is pretty fucking hilarious.

“Sorry, folks,” Pete says into the camera. “And now back to your regularly scheduled Patrick.”

Psycho network jerks who literally want to kill him aside, Joe still thinks he’s got a fucking awesome job, and an equally kick-ass life.

Patrick makes a face, but obligingly kicks into Grand Theft Autumn which, Joe thinks, isn’t actually about Hemmy or Bob or sunshine. You can never be too sure with Pete, though.


End file.
